That
night, as the team slept in the great cavern, I lay awake, staring at the stone
ceiling far above us, and recollected a very strange dream I had had years
before – at least I had categorized it then as a dream. I now realized it was a
memory. Mubarak’s transformation earlier that day had ignited a spark somewhere
in my latent memories.
I
had returned to our home in Dhahran from my second year at UCLA, where I had
begun seriously studying anthropology. I was what Aramco called a “Returning
Student,” a senior high school- or college-age dependent who studied outside
the Kingdom and would spend the summer and holidays in-Kingdom with his or her
family. Some of us were lucky enough to snag summer jobs in the Aramco camp,
either working for the company itself or for one of its contractors, as an
intern or temporary help. I had found work at the Dhahran Recreational Library,
which suited me just fine. They had an interesting, eclectic collection of
books in English acquired over the past three-quarters of a century. I became
familiar with some rare anthropological resource material that would prove
useful to me in my studies – for example, old explorers’ accounts, from the 19th
century and earlier, of travels in the Rub’ al-Khali and other parts of Arabia.
I was fond of that library, where I had studied and chatted with classmates in
my junior high years. The cool quiet and serenity of that place was a great
relief from the blazing heat that reigned outside its walls for more than half
of the year.
I
had spent a busy day at the Rec Library working on the annual inventory, and
was home, asleep in my room. Asleep, that is, until something awakened me. The
only sound was the steady rush of chilled air from the vents of the central air
conditioning system. While it had to be at least two in the morning, the
temperature outside our house was doubtless still in the nineties. I was
certain my parents and two brothers were still asleep. Something had changed in
my room. I sat up in bed and peered around in the dim green light that emanated
from the radio alarm clock on my nightstand. I thought I saw a black shadow, of
human form, move quickly into my open closet. I blinked, certain my eyes were
not working right. Then, strangely, the hair on the back of my neck, and the fine
hairs on my forearms, stood up as I felt genuine fear.
I
debated climbing out of bed, turning on the lights, and checking out my closet.
But my rational mind told me there could be nothing there. The Aramco camp was
very safe, and break-ins were extremely rare. The strict nature of Saudi
Arabia’s legal punishments for crimes, including the loss of a hand for theft
and the loss of one’s head for murder and rape, was a powerful deterrent.
I
closed my eyes and pulled my covers up around my neck. Then I did a full-body
shiver, as I felt someone lying in bed beside me. There was a man’s body beside
me, a warm, living body. He rolled toward me and put his arms around me. I
tried not to panic. I decided not to scream. I found myself thinking about my
boyfriend Max Sellars back at UCLA, and for some reason I thought he was with
me in the bed. I recalled our slow and tender explorations of each other’s
flesh, our tentative moves to join our bodies together, and then the amazing
rush of excitement as we thrust and strained to become a single organism, a merged
body and soul.
Suddenly
Max and I were making love again, and I could feel his rigid penis moving deep
inside me. I held him tight, and kissed him, and tasted his lips and his
probing tongue. It was an incredible experience, being back at UCLA again, and
I was certain at that moment that I must be dreaming. Before too long I began
to orgasm, and Max, with his sweet patience and impeccable timing, responded by
doing the same. It wasn’t long before we were lying in each other’s arms, spent
but blissfully relaxed. Then I opened my eyes and saw that it wasn’t Max.
I
was staring into the big brown eyes of the young Arab man who had rescued me
several years earlier from that would-be rapist.
I
gasped. He gently put his fingertips on my lips.
“Be
still,” he said. “You wanted Max, and I helped you with that.”
“How
did you – ?”
“
– know that?” he said, finishing my sentence. “How did I get in here? Who am I?
So many questions.”
I
saw a smile begin on his lips. He seemed so reassuring, I was not frightened.
“I
am your qareen,” he said. “Call me
your guide. I have been paired with you, and I do what I can to guide you, to
help you. In your culture, you might call me your ‘guardian angel,’ but
understand, I am not an angel.”
I
knew about qareens from my Middle
Eastern studies. They were jinnis who served as spirit guides or hidden
companions of humans. Some were said to be good, and others evil.
“You
speak such good English,” I said, somewhat nonplussed and clueless where this
conversation was going.
“We’re
not speaking English,” he said with a smile. “You are wondering how I got in
here. I attenuated myself, and then passed through the wall. It’s a talent I
have, as do all of my people, and it comes in handy sometimes. I didn’t think
you would mind. You are a lucky woman. Not many humans are able to interact
directly with their qareens. I must
say – I am lucky too. I am very fond of you.”
He
brushed a few strands of hair from my eyes and kissed me gently on the lips. I
responded. The world took a quick spin. When I finally opened my eyes, he was
gone.
Afterwards,
I treated this experience as a dream, filed it, and forgot it. It was only when
Mubarak came back into my life, and we began exploring this cave together, than
I remembered that he was my qareen.
When
morning came, we packed up our belongings and prepared to resume the trek. At
about 7 a.m., new team members arrived from outside. Frank Devereaux, who had
been expecting the new arrivals, made the introductions.
I
shook hands with Dan Keller of Aramco. He was a big guy with craggy good looks
– an ex-cop, apparently, who worked the industrial security beat for the oil
company. He was accompanied by a sharp young Saudi aide, Muhammad Al-Shaikh.
You had the impression that this aide was focused on the future and knew that
some day, when Keller retired, he would take over his boss’s job. So while
Keller seemed serious and maybe a bit grim, Al-Shaikh was upbeat and fully
charged, ready to take on the world (subterranean though it might be).
“So
tell me, Keller,” I said, “what’s your involvement in all this?”
“Well,”
he said slowly, “I was going to ask you the same question.”
“Let’s
start with you first.”
“Muhammad
and I work Industrial Security at Aramco. We’re investigating several
mysterious employee deaths in Dhahran, as well as the disappearance of a remote
area exploration team at the Hima field. When I mentioned these incidents to a
friend at the U.S. consulate, suddenly gears started turning, and I ended up
here.”
Devereaux
was listening to us, and he gave me a facial signal that it was okay to fill
Keller in on our bizarre quest. I did so, veering between vagueness and stark
specificity. The interesting thing was, Keller didn’t seem taken aback by the
idea that we were “jinn-hunting.” Clearly someone had briefed him. His
questions were to-the-point and very productive. As we talked, with Devereaux
occasionally chiming in to add some clarity, it became obvious to all of us,
without anyone saying it directly, that our little cave expedition had an
actual destination. We weren’t just searching for a jinni in a photograph. We
were heading out under the desert, en route to the “anomaly,” as Keller called
it – a subterranean base, beneath the Rub’ al-Khali, that might prove to be the
source of all the world’s UFOs, to put it bluntly.
I
told Keller: “We’ve encountered something strange at the end of this cavern – a
ramp, built by human or other hands, leading way down, to God knows where. This
morning we plan to follow it and see where it goes.”
“What
direction is it heading?”
“Due
east.”
“Toward
Hima, eh?” He smiled.
“Don’t
be too optimistic,” I said. “Hima’s about two hundred miles from here.”
“Look
– distance isn’t a problem for the jinn – if that in fact is really what they
are.”
“True,”
I agreed. “Let’s see how they solve the problem.”
We
packed up our gear and headed across the cavern, with our two new team members
in tow. Al-Shaikh chatted in Arabic with Mubarak Awda. Keller questioned Jim
Lasser and Mahmoud Bakhashaf about the cave itself. The Marines silently led
the way. My own personal Marine, Mike Lorenzo, resumed his Velcro position at
my side. Devereaux seemed lost in thought.
Two
Marines were the first to head down the ramp. After about five minutes, they
returned to us.
Private
Belding filled us in: “It looks safe, far as we can tell. It’s just a ramp in a
tube, and it goes on for miles. It seems to be pretty well lit, though we can’t
see where the light is coming from. We may end up walking all morning and not
come to the end of it.”
With
Devereaux’s go-ahead, we all headed into the tunnel. Belding was right: it was
a tube. A manufactured tube that went on forever, slicing deeper and deeper
into the earth. The light that surrounded us was pale blue, and the ramp
itself, as I said before, was dark blue. It was an eerie atmosphere, something
out of a sci-fi flick. Oddly, I couldn’t hear the sound of our footsteps as
well walked. I thought at first perhaps something was wrong with my ears. But I
could hear people talking to each other. It was just the absence of sound when
our feet made contact with the tunnel floor – total silence! The contact itself
felt normal – there was the normal jarring in my bones – I just couldn’t hear
it.
I
asked Devereaux about this. He had noticed the same thing.
“Jinn
technology,” he said, and left it at that. The whole thing blew my mind, but I
trudged on.
After
a few minutes, I tried to engage my Marine, Lorenzo, in a little conversation.
“Where
are you from, Private?” I asked.
“Uh,
sorry, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. It looked like he was
blushing. I don’t think he expected me to talk to him!
“I
just wanted to know where your hometown is,” I explained.
“Sorry,
ma’am,” he said again, and then clammed up and continued walking, his eyes
focused on the tunnel ahead.
Maybe
he’s under orders not to talk to me, I thought. Oh well, that’s life. Onward!
My
thoughts returned to Max. I recalled the delicious times we had had in the
early days, and thought about how the relationship had turned sour, step by
step. I thought about his remarkable mind, and his fine body, and I puzzled
over how clueless he was when it came to understanding my needs, emotional and
otherwise…. As we trudged through the cave, I shook my head and felt true
regret that I could not share this experience with Max – he would have been in
his element, and I certainly could have used his insights….
Dan
Keller watched Dr. Goddard’s failed effort to engage the Marine in conversation.
The professor was a fascinating woman, quite intelligent and attractive with her
short brown hair, large green eyes, and a quirky, informal manner that put you
off your guard. Keller wondered what it would be like to be involved with such
a woman – he bet an unexpectedly sharp tongue went along with that sharp mind –
but then he put the idea out of his head, and tried to focus on the task before
him. (He did notice, though, that Goddard was frequently trading glances with
the Saudi guide, Mubarak Awda. Something was going on there, he decided.)
As
they continued down the ramp, Keller made assessments of all the team members.
He drifted to the back of the pack, so that he could keep an eye on each
participant. His cop instincts told him he would eventually need to know
something about everyone in this crowd. But he was having trouble with Lorenzo,
the Marine to the left of Dr. Goddard. The man’s body language signaled some
kind of distress – as well as a surprising awkwardness for a Marine, who lived
by the reaction times of his muscles. It was almost as if Lorenzo, who was a
big guy, was uncomfortable in his skin….
They
arrived at a fork in the tunnel. For a moment the group stopped and rested, as
Devereaux, Lasser and Bakhashaf consulted on whether to branch left or right.
Devereaux chose the right branch of the tunnel, which continued the eastward
trend. As the team members shouldered their gear and began heading down the
rightward ramp, Keller slipped deftly beside Lorenzo and gently nudged him out
of the group and into the leftward corridor. Keller’s assistant, Al-Shaikh, saw
his boss was up to something, and he wisely backed away from the action. The big
Marine seemed baffled and suddenly showed fear in his eyes. Keller whispered to
him in rapid-fire cop-speak, telling the young man he needed to discuss
something with him privately and he’d be able to get back to the team in just a
moment.
“Sir
–” Lorenzo said hollowly. “Sir, out of my way!” He pawed at Keller, trying to
push him aside. But Dan stood his ground.
Keller
realized something strange was happening to the young man. He wasn’t sure what
it was, but he wanted this Marine a good distance from the team when it
happened. With all the strange things going on around him, Keller would not be
surprised if Lorenzo was one of those jinnis. He knew they could change shape.
He suspected that was happening right now.
Lorenzo’s
skin had taken on a shimmering quality, and appeared to be glowing. Waves of
heat emanated from the soldier and he began to quake. His eyes were like
gleaming yellow studs.
Keller’s
instincts told him it was time to leave. He swung a foot behind Lorenzo’s calf
and with both hands pushed hard on the Marine’s chest. “Christ!” Keller shouted
as the pain of an intense burn seared his hands. Lorenzo went down hard. He was
so distracted by the changes occurring in his body that he seemed unaware he
had fallen. He lay on his back, his spine arched, trembling – and burning.
Keller leaped backwards and ran toward the tunnel fork. As he wheeled around
the corner and rejoined the expedition members, who had moved barely twenty
meters down the ramp, a loud crack and devastating explosion ripped through the
other corridor. The team members froze in their steps and looked back. Clouds
of smoke and dust billowed from the other corridor, lanced with beams of
white-hot light.
“What
the hell??” Devereaux shouted and started to move tentatively toward the blast.
Keller
took him by the arm. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I took care of it.”
“What
just happened?”
“I
think it was meant be an attack on us.
The Marine Lorenzo – just blew up.”
The
Marine sergeant, a wiry, grim-faced African-American named O’Dell, stepped up
to Keller and eyeballed him: “What did you say?”
Keller
didn’t back down. “Sorry, Sergeant,” he said, “but your man is gone. If you ask
me, that wasn’t your man anyway. I don’t know where the real Private Lorenzo
is, but that wasn’t him. That was a damned jinni.”
O’Dell’s
face twisted with anger and confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Keller
turned to Devereaux. He noticed Dr. Goddard was staring at the White House man
too, and clearly wanted him to say something. “Mr. Devereaux, I think it’s time
you explained to the sergeant here – and in fact to everyone -- just what’s
going down. We’re in some pretty dangerous territory, and not knowing what
we’re up against is likely to get us killed.”
The
caver Lasser stepped up as well. “I agree. This has gone on long enough. If you
don’t level with us, Devereaux, we’re all very likely to end up toast.”
The
psychiatrist Semple nodded in agreement. His face was pale and streaked with
fear. “Tell them, Frank.”
Devereaux
looked down for a moment, sighed, then looked up at the team. His eyes sought
out Emily Goddard, who was silent, her expression inscrutable. She knew. Semple
knew. Keller – clearly – knew. The rest of them were groping in the dark.
Devereaux took out his cell phone, as if to call Washington for counsel. He
remembered that cell phones did not work far below the Earth’s surface, and he
slipped the phone back in his pocket. He was on his own. The White House was
far, far away, and the decision-making was up to him.
“Fair
enough,” he said. “You all have a right to this information.”
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